


“Small Moments”

by AhmedA01



Category: 1960s Music Scene RPF, British Singers RPF, Music RPF, Rock Music RPF, The Beatles
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:51:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhmedA01/pseuds/AhmedA01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thinks about what once was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“Small Moments”

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing. Obviously. Unfortunately.

The small moments are the ones that I miss the most. ****

Not those grandiose, life-changing moments, like our first kiss, the first time we said “I love you,” or even the first time we made… the first time we fucked.

Though that last one was pretty bloody fantastic, I’ll tell you that.

Anyway, those aren’t the moments that I’m talking about, because they were usually so few and far between. Anomalies during an otherwise normal day. No, the small moments, the ones experienced on a perfectly average day, the ones that served as a daily reminder of what we had are the ones worth mentioning.

I miss the times that we’d share a microphone either on or off stage and he’d look up at me slyly from between those long eyelashes of his, coupled with a wink, and slow lick of his lips. More often than not, that was the main reason behind my fucking up the lyrics in the middle of a song and one slip of my tongue would always produce the desired effect. His smirk would melt into a full-blown grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. Of course, that would just increase my look of awed stupidity, and any chance of getting the lyrics right on the second chorus would pretty much fly out the fucking window.

These days, when we’re recording vocals at the same mic, it takes every ounce of my self-control to not reach out and grasp his chin between my fingers and turn his face towards mine, just to get one damned look into those eyes of his. But I don’t, I mean I can’t, and we continue on, me trying my hardest to not look utterly depressed as he studiously avoids looking at me.

It hurts more than I can possibly say.

Then there were those moments during those endless press conferences that we had to sit through, when he’d often deftly maneuver himself so that he was sitting right next to me, and by “deftly maneuver” I mean shoving George and Ringo aside and lunging for the seat near mine. So we’d sit there and be asked one asinine question after the other and my temper would rise exponentially with each word that fell from each reporter’s lips. But before I could open my mouth to let loose with a scathing retort, I’d feel a hand on my knee followed by a quick squeeze, calming me almost immediately. We’ve avoided many potentially damaging incidents because of that small gesture.

Although we haven’t held that many conferences in recent years, the ones that we have held have been characterized by awkwardness all around. The most recent one was for Apple Corps, the two of us flying over to New York together and try as he might, he could not find a way to avoid sitting beside me. Be as it may, he might as well have been sitting across the bloody room! He wouldn’t look at me, he wouldn’t speak to me, and his hands were clasped together tightly on the table in front of him, the knuckles turning white, almost as if he was fighting with himself to not let his hand rest where it once used to.

Our daily songwriting sessions have also become a thing of the past. It seems like an entire lifetime has passed since the days we’d spend in the front room of his dad’s house, still relatively innocent lads coming into our own as songwriters. I miss sitting next to him on a cramped sofa, our knees and elbows touching as an open notebook lay in front of us, half-formed lyrics and the names of chords dotting the page. As inspiration hit, an excited look would always light up his face, mirroring the fucking spectacular new line that we just thought up. He’d always dive for the notebook, shoving me to the side, as he picked up the battered book and began jotting the words down in his meticulous writing, as I’d watch in amusement.

In recent years we’ve stopped writing like that, playing in each other’s face as the words flowed out of us as one. Even before things got fucked up between us, we started bringing in songs that were almost complete, needing the other for that one line that would bring the whole song together, or a chord that would put the song over the top. Now, the first time that we even hear each other’s songs is in the studio when we’re ready to record it.

The great songwriting team of Lennon/McCartney. What a fucking joke, man.

So many moments, so many fucking moments. Sharing a joint in the loo before going onstage. A laugh at the expense of another pompous ass we’d just met at a record company gathering. Exchanging secret grins at any time of the day, kisses whenever we were alone.

But I think that what I miss most of all is simply sleeping next to him. He always had this habit of eschewing his side of the bed in favour of mine, curling into my side with one arm draped across my chest and one leg tangled with mine, clinging onto me as though he was afraid that I’d disappear sometime in the middle of the night. I’d always playfully tease him about it, but what I never told him was that I absolutely loved it. Sometime I’d just lie awake, encased in his arms, my face turned towards his as I watched him sleep, marveling at the fact that he was mine and that I was his. Wondering how in the world did I ever get so lucky to have found him.

These days when I sleep next to him, I can’t believe how different the feeling is. The long black hair that is spread across her pillow is so unlike the relatively shorter brown strands that I had grown accustomed to. She lies with her back towards me, her petite frame curled into a ball on the far side of the bed. Sometimes I feel myself reaching out for her, but the slightest touch of my hand on her bare skin causes her to roll further away. It’s almost as if she seeks to escape me, even in sleep. At these times I can’t help but feel the chill upon me and that’s when I miss his warmth.

Fucking hell, I miss him. Plain and simple. And sometimes I can’t bear the thought of never being with him again.


End file.
